The Ever Gloom
by Justice Tokidoki
Summary: These fields we travel through never show a way, a path. We run in circles, desperate to find the answer, the truth. Help me understand, help me escape this dark Ever Gloom.
1. Journal Entry 250

**The Ever Gloom~**

**Act I: Reason in Madness**

* * *

It's raining and I'm sitting in this dingy cabin, leaning against a hard, cold bench wondering what I'm going to do now that _**Roxas**_ is gone, as usual. I'm surrounded by people of all shapes and sizes, their sour breaths stain the air with lust, copper, and drink.

It almost makes me laugh. Me, sitting in a bar, where temptation lurks at every corner. Where people submit themselves to lust, fame, fortune, chance, instinct . . . it makes me _**shiver**_ with anticipation. Really, it's amazing to watch. Not because of the partying, the absence of cognition, the painless process that muddles the human soul from within.

No. I like watching everyone because I'm waiting. Waiting, observing, listening, judging . . . but also understanding. Yes, understand, understand, understand. I need to understand, I _want_ to understand.

There's no other option, no other choice. I have to know why he did it, I must find reason in his madness. For he is mad, right? There's a string of logic in here somewhere that I'm missing, but I must find it. I have to find it.

For him, but mainly for myself. If I don't find it . . . well, then maybe I'll truly go crazy.

Journal Entry 250


	2. The House

**Chapter 1: The House**

Waking up had always been the hardest part. The world was cruel on his eyes; The sun wanted to roast his eyelids, the air offered no comfort, and the ground always left him sore and tired.

However, this was nothing in comparison to the slow aching sensation that rose from his chest. It always started out that way, a light jab or burst of agony that said everything and nothing. Everything was always pain, and nothing could distract him from the sense of unworthiness and helplessness that came with the agony.

So waking up was hard. But eventually he would get up anyway because laying down was boring and impractical. Despite his growing feelings of unworthiness and pain, he always felt the need to do _something_. It was impossible for him to stay still. Although his mind was too muddled to notice, on a subconscious level his body equated the feeling of stillness with loneliness. Loneliness and death.

He stood then, and with the act of standing came purpose. A goal. Belonging._ I am not dead_, his feet would say to the earth. _I move. Therefore, I'm not dead._

Walking, however, proved to be more difficult than he anticipated, as was the case with most simple things. He found that his surroundings tended to spin unevenly when he walked, even if he was going straight. And sometimes when he reached out to touch, to feel, to learn . . . well, that's when the object would shift or move. Or better yet, perhaps he had moved at the last second. Maybe he didn't have enough focus, enough sense of stillness to reach the tree, to stroke the water, to avoid bumping into a pole.

Again, as he walked through the cruel shifting world, he could already tell that he knew what this condition was called. There was nothing new here, more like a process of remembering an idea or shape that had already been at the back of his head. Whichever the case, he found that most of the time when he attempted to touch things they simply weren't there.

And that, in itself, was scary for him. It terrified him. The only thing worse than being dead was living in a world that he couldn't interact with. He needed a sign of life, an establishment, a place where he could truly live and be still without fear. But where was such a place? Did it even exist?

He grimaced as the vague thoughts blossomed in his head. Tears leaked out of his left eye, however his right eye didn't react at all. He would have contemplated over this unusual reaction if he wasn't too busy moaning from the pain near his heart.

"Hurts . . ." He gasped. It had been a while since he had heard his own voice. After a few minutes though, his curiosity turned bitter with a frown. He didn't like the sound of his voice. It sounded too flat, almost robotic. It didn't fit him, didn't fit the pain he was feeling at that moment, nor did it remind him of the hopelessness that filtered out of his uneven sleeping patterns and walks. With these ideas weaving in his head, he decided that he would not talk.

His feet moved again and the hopeless cycle continued. The air was still comfortless, only bringing him cold breezes. After ten minutes of walking through ungrateful open space his breath got caught in his throat as he gazed at the structure in front of him.

A white house.

House. Kitchen, stove, fire, warmth, living room, couch, arm rest, warmth, bedroom, blankets, pillow, warmth.

House, warmth, life.

He smiled and before he could even blink his feet were already halfway through taking him to the entrance. He reached the front door, smile still stuck to his face, then he slowly turned the doorknob. The wood moved effortlessly and he walked in, gazing at random stuff. He was distracted from his observations when the agony surfaced again, striking his stomach mercilessly.

He grunted and wheezed, holding onto the wall for support. The pain continued, twisting his insides precariously. He wondered vaguely if it would get as bad as that one time. With a grimace he fought to keep the nausea inside, looking up straight ahead at the front door.

And then the pain disappeared as his eyes widened. How could he have missed it? It was there, written in crimson on the door.

A name.

He walked closer to it, letting his small hands run down the intricate letters, marveling at the fact that he somehow understood them. It was familiar, too familiar. He frowned as one single memory flashed briefly through his mind's eye, a rare occurence.

When the series of images ended he smiled. How silly of him. How could he forget his own name? He went back to stroking the letters, deciding to use his voice to cement his existence to the house.

"Syaoran."

* * *

**Well, as you all might have guessed, this story will have short chapters. So, hopefully, this means updates won't be too much of an issue.**

**I don't own Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle or Kingdom Hearts. Yep...**

**Anyway, questions? Concerns? Feel free to ask by pressing the button below :)**


	3. The Boy

**Chapter 2: The Boy**

The house grew in significance once he realized it was his. After all, his name was written on the front door. Ownership was an empowering experience and Syaoran reveled in it.

He took his time touching everything within reach. The smooth tiles in the kitchen, the pots and pans in the cabinet, the smooth furnishings in the den, the rough textures encompassing the couches . . .

It took him one whole hour just to ravish the accommodations downstairs. He still had a whole new world to enter upstairs, and his heart burst with excitement.

Taking two steps at a time, he ran up the stairs, wobbling near the top as his vision danced. He pressed one firm hand against the wall and took in slim amounts of oxygen in pants. It would probably be best to walk from here on out.

Most of the rooms upstairs proved to be a disappointment. They were mainly bare with only an empty bed and the dim light from windows as comfort. Except for one room.

He slowly made his way through an empty ocean of flooring and light before reaching the huddled form beneath the sheets. The bundle of blankets was moving and it piqued his interest. With shaky hands he lifted the covers, peering at the face of a young boy with exploding brown spikes for hair. The sight of the boys peaceful face made him feel . . . guilty.

How strange, he was sure that he had met this person before but . . .

No, no it wouldn't do good to bother him. He was sleeping anyway. With these thoughts in mind, Syaoran covered him up again with a nervous smile, then inched away from him with cautious steps. He continued this slow, dangerous walk of silence before closing the door. He sat against the door and frowned, rubbing his own forehead.

The boy in the room . . . Syaoran couldn't help but feel like he had wronged him somehow. Question was, what had been done?


	4. Headaches

**Chapter 3: Headaches**

After five minutes of pondering his head burst into flames of pain. He gripped his head, letting out a soft moan as the agony spread throughout his forehead, sprouting out like stabbing petals falling from a cherry blossom tree.

Cherry blossoms. The thought of the flowers made his head hurt more. Syaoran gritted his teeth and bit back another moan as the pain continued to torment him. Images of different people and places flashed briefly through his mind's eye, but it all went away too fast for him to focus on any image in particular. He felt like he was drowning in a sea of foreign experiences and emotions.

Syaoran brought his shaking hands up to his own hair, pulling in a vain attempt to distract himself from the blazing headache. However, the pain of his coarse hair being pulled out strand by strand didn't help at all.

He simply settled than for resting his head against the rough floor, shivering lightly as the pain pressed back against the force of his head hitting the ground. He kept his eyes shut tight, hoping his problems would disintegrate in the darkness like his vision. But no, his head only throbbed and throbbed.

_Looks like I'll just have to fight through it._ He sighed then opened his eyes. Something brown was blocking his vision. He squinted and frowned, trying to focus through the pain. When his eyes had adjusted finally and he realized what he was looking at, he sucked in a deep breath and screamed.


	5. You're a Fast Runner

**Chapter 4: You're a Fast Runner**

Syaoran was panting heavily, doing his best to not look back behind him to check on his assailant's progress. But he couldn't stop himself, he was simply too curious. Curious and aware.

_Those blue eyes, those deep blue eyes._ He swallowed and turned the corner, heart hammering in his chest as he heard the soft noise of rapid footsteps not too far away. He was gaining, that little boy earlier was gaining on him. He had to run faster.

Syaoran sucked in a breath, then slammed his heels into the ground, trying to sprint. _Keep going, keep going, keep going,_ his mind screamed. His eyes watered and he shook as the tears messed up his blurry vision. The walls were running into each other and the colors were clashing, like paints being spread all over each other. It was all a mess, all an expansive, dizzying world of colors.

Syaoran had never felt so lost, he never felt so terrified. But he still ran, his feet still pushed him even if he slammed into a desk or a wall. It didn't matter.

_Find an opening, anything. Just. Get. Away. From. Him._

He could tell by the flooring that he was in a bedroom now. The light from the window was blinding. He covered his tear-streaked eyes before feeling around for furniture. He let out a strained sigh as he found the bed, then he crawled underneath it, waiting.

Breathe in, breathe out. He had to remind himself. It didn't help when he heard the door creak open. His eyes instantly snapped to the corner before following the petite, white feet. Very soft, light skin. Girly feet for sure. Syaoran frowned at the strange thoughts, then held his breath as the feet stood still, right in front of him.

A few seconds passed. The seconds turned to minutes. Syaoran counted, then froze as he saw one foot move. The boy was tapping now, as if he were waiting for him. Syaoran closed his eyes and didn't move an inch.

Seconds passed. Minutes. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Silence. Syaoran opened his eyes in time to see the feet moving away. He blinked slowly, trying to relax his muscles. It was okay, the boy was leaving now. He could-

"Found you!" Syaoran didn't have time to register the voice before he was pulled out from under the bed from the opposite side by his feet. He couldn't even scream, the motion of being pulled upside down made him too dizzy to even struggle. His vision shifted into focus briefly before he was pushed onto the bed.

The boy with the spiky, brown hair was panting in front of him, eyes closed. But he was also smiling. "You're . . . so . . . fast . . . "

Syaoran blinked, completely shocked. He didn't say anything, just stared at the strange person in front of him. _Was he . . . playing with me?_ Syaoran frowned. _No. He shouldn't . . . this isn't right. He should be . . . mad at me, right? _

There was nothing but light and mischief in the boy's face, which contrasted violently with Syaoran's thoughts. In fact, the boy looked really happy.

"You really . . . really are fast," the energetic lad repeated before sitting next to a bewildered Syaoran. His smile was a meter wide and if Syaoran looked hard enough he could see a faint sparkling effect in the boy's eyes.

Slowly, Syaoran relaxed, though the guilt and tensions still resided within, deep down within his own stomach. After a moment's hesitation he decided to speak. "I . . . guess I am?" He flinched again at the sound of his own voice. It seemed pointless to speak, the pain in his throat didn't warrant this type of sound.

His companion face brightened. "You speak!"

Syaoran shrugged before crossing his arms over his chest. The exclamation seemed very silly to him. "Of course I speak." Syaoran yelped lightly as he was pulled into a rough hug.

"Yay!" The boy then proceeded to get up and dance. His clothes rustled with the movements, morphing in and out of his form, they were obviously a little big on him. The loose clothes were white, so white that it hurt Syaoran's eyes. It made the boy's eyes stand out more, along with his wild hair.

_How strange. He's not mad. Whatever I did must have been forgotten._ Syaoran shivered slightly before trying to back away, only to stop as a hand shot out towards him.

"I'm Sora. What's your name?" A giggle came after the question. A breathy, exclamation of air that rolled in the wind, flowing easily with his moving feet.

His movements captivated Syaoran for some reason. They were almost restless, as if staying still would end in freedom being crushed. It reminded Syaoran of himself, of how he had woken up that morning and countless mornings before that. With this single similarity in mind between them, Syaoran decided it would be safe to reveal his name. "I'm Syaoran."

Sora tilted his head, repeating the name slowly. It rolled off the tip of his tongue in an awkward matter, as if he were trying to figure out what the word meant. He narrowed his eyes briefly in concentration, mouth settling into the first frown Syaoran had seen from him.

_Oh no. Is he starting to remember now?_ Syaoran gulped.

Sora grunted before blinking. Then he smiled again and shook his head, as if he was dismissing a troubling thought. "That's cool! Well, it's your turn now."

"What?" Syaoran was still having a hard time accepting the fact that he had been let off. _Did he just go into a lapse? Maybe he's pushing the memory away._

"Hey!" Sora snapped his fingers in front of Syaoran, causing him to jump back. "It's your turn!"

"My turn for what?" Syaoran asked through tense lips.

Sora turned in a little circle, spinning before running out. "Your turn to find me!" His laughter echoed off the walls in the hallway, and then silence invaded, leaving unsettling ideas drifting in the air.


	6. Image Doesn't Reflect

**Chapter 5: Image Doesn't Reflect**

Syaoran decided to take his time looking for Sora. He was still a little shaken by how the boy had pulled his legs, practically throwing him on the bed. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment at how foolish he looked. It had been a game from the start, yet he overreacted.

_Why would something like that happen? Why did I perceive him as a threat in the first place?_

_Is it just guilt? Will I always feel this way around him until I confess?_ Syaoran sighed. "I don't even know what to confess," he said, then he covered his eyes. He had resorted to confessing his problems to a wall. A slow, long breath escaped from his tense lips before he stood up, stretching his arms. He tilted his head once then popped his left shoulder.

He hissed as a dull ache resounded from in between his shoulder blades. _Strange, It feels so sore. I don't remember hurting myself here . . ._

He frowned once before walking out of the room, beginning his search as every weary traveller does (which involved moving at a somewhat sluggish pace and letting the eyes wander over every minute detail in the wooden walls before entering a different room).

The room isn't a bedroom at all like he expected. Instead it nearly scares him away as his one good eye takes in all the blue eyes staring at him. "Wha!" He stepped away and fumbles for the door, hands moving wildly to find the doorknob. But it's camouflaged in the background, a completely white doorknob in a sea of glass.

_Wait, glass?_ Syaoran stopped moving and stared at the eyes closely. He blinked once and the eyes blinked back at the same moment. Syaoran's eyes narrowed while his hand reached out, touching an identical hand reflected in what he now recognized to be a mirror. But . . .

_This can't be right . . . the person in the mirror is . . . he looks so young. That can't be me._ Syaoran sighed once. Then he lifted his hand up to the patch covering his right eye. _So . . . this is why I've been having trouble seeing. Interesting._ Dismissing the fact that he looked like a meager ten-year-old (in his mind he felt at least three years older than the image presented), he pulled off the black piece of cloth in hopes of finally being able to see straight.

He got a quick view of his other eye, a bright amber iris, before his vision crumbles, shattering him with different memories. None of the scenes made sense, in fact it only brought him pain. He couldn't even properly see them. In one eye he was seeing memories and in the other eye (his blue one) he was still looking around at all the mirrors, watching himself fall to the ground. The floor itself reflected his body, allowing him a full view of his body shaking violently, sweat running down his forehead.

"What . . . what's happening to me . . . ?" he asked the mirror before collapsing on it. He could feel his heart beating, pounding against his chest and the floor. He swallowed a mouthful of bile and stayed on the glass, blinking once as the memories in his brown eye scattered before his vision in it turned dark.


	7. Journal Entry 251

**The Ever Gloom~**

**Act II: Haze**

* * *

Drinking is interesting. You take a sip, and suddenly you're god.

. . .

Well . . . technically it depends on the drink, but anyway . . . you take a few sips. Then you think, hate yourself for thinking, and drink some more.

Most people do it out of depression, others do it to forget everything, others are simply choosing pathetic reasons. My reason is far from pathetic, but it's actually rare (well, rare among alcoholics).

It might be because I'm not exactly **from** this **world**, but when I drink it doesn't affect me negatively. Don't get me wrong, I do get drunk. I get so drunk I may start burping instead of talking, then I'll backtrack and talk but then I realize that I was just talking backwards, then I'll-

Wait, what was I saying? Ugh . . . guess two is my limit today.

Another strange thing about drinking. The shot limit? Yeah, it varies. Everyone thinks they know what their limit is, how high they can go without losing it and stuff. Me? Usually, I last about five shots . . . this time, two.

See? Didn't that sound intelligent? Did you even suspect that I was drunk when I made that statement?

Hmm, I'm starting to digress. That happens when you drink. It happens a lot.

Well, unlike most, I drink not because I enjoy the **haze** that follows . . . okay, yes, I actually do enjoy it a little, but it's mainly because I feel . . . smart? Yes, smart is the right word. Everything just comes to me after a shot or two, suddenly everything makes sense. Sure, some may see this as self-harm, and others may think I've actually **lost** it, but after seeing my friend **scream** for hours on end in an oval, crowded pod? After watching him suffer time and time again as images seep into his head, skimming through his brutal, frenzied eyes?

Why don't you let me drink, let me welcome the haze so that I can fix this. Let me enter the haze so that his screams won't reach me and I can finally find the answer to the truth.

Journal Entry 251


	8. It's Just You

**Chapter 6: It's Just You**

It took a long time for his heart to relax. Even when it returned to its normal, steady rhythm he stayed on the glass, staring at himself. He had covered up his brown eye a while ago with his makeshift blindfold. The moment it was covered he felt . . . relieved. It was like being dropped in a warm lake, his muscles relaxed along the reflective ground and he could feel his mouth open up in a small 'O' shape, letting out a soft gasp.

After fifteen minutes he sat up, glaring at his reflection angrily. His mind throbbed briefly with the faint undertone of lost memories and he growled at himself in the mirror. To stare at yourself in the mirror and not know who you were, to see a stranger within glass . . . it was simply the most awful thing Syaoran had ever experienced.

_That is not me. That is not who I am. That eye should be brown also, not blue. That. Is. Not. Me._

He didn't even realize when his own fist smashed into one of the mirrors. Blood flew in spirals from his knuckles and he watched crimson lines drip down from within the cracks. The image grew distorted, giving him short snippets of himself. But his one blue eye still stared back at him and he shuddered. "You're not me," he repeated, as if it would somehow make everything better.

But he could only feel the agony in his stomach resurface as he turned around, watching himself move in a dizzying circle in about twenty mirrors. It was painful to look at, he couldn't bear to see himself this way. He didn't know why, and he didn't know where the heavy emotions had started, but the longer he stared at himself the more he wanted to smash his fists against the glass.

So . . . he did.

It hurt every time, of course, but once he had reached the tenth mirror (by this time he had shifted from using his fists to using his heels) he became accepting of the pain and a calm, angry numbness took over from within as he jammed limbs against glass. He sucked in a breath through tired lungs, looking around warily at the mirrors around himself. Glinting, sharp, cracked images appeared before him in all shapes and forms. Even the floor was dented and cracked from all the stomping he had done to destroy the mirrors laced in the floor. There was only one more left, which revealed a perfect copy of himself shaking and groaning.

He tilted his head once before walking over to the mirror, struggling to control his willpower. He lifted his hand slowly, bloody fingers twitching erratically as he prepared to form it into a fist.

"Wait!"

Syaoran blinked once, staring at the mirror still, watching Sora walk towards him. Sora's blue eyes were filled with confusion and despair, a special kind of shock that twisted his features into a horrified expression. He looked scared. "What . . . what are you doing?"

Syaoran sighed. He wasn't fully sure how to explain his precarious emotions, all he knew was that smashing this image of himself felt . . . right. He had to do this. "I'm just . . . scared, I guess." He shrugged. It was the closest thing he could think of to describe it.

Sora stepped a little closer, eyes warily glancing all over the room, seeing the broken images and blood in the cracks. "Scared of what?" he asked, voice hollow with confusion.

Syaoran wordlessly pointed to his own face, particularly where his eye would be. He made a small circle with his finger, smearing the glass with blood. Sora winced then turned to look at him. "But . . . it's just you."

Syaoran nodded. "Yeah. That's the problem." Before he could convince himself otherwise, he fully slammed his fist into the mirror.


End file.
